


Pretending to be Brave

by PersonyPepper



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Depressed Jaskier | Dandelion, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode: s01e06 Rare Species, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Post-Episode: S01E06 Rare Species, Pre-Slash, Recklessness, Suicidal Thoughts, suicidal jaskier
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-19
Updated: 2020-07-19
Packaged: 2021-03-04 19:15:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25371469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PersonyPepper/pseuds/PersonyPepper
Summary: “Jaskier, I need to check your wound.” The bard giggles, a sound so happy it makes Geralt’s chest ache for not having heard it for months since that dreaded mountain.“Buy me dinner first, at least— oh wait, forgot that you don’t know how to treat a lady— or anyone at all who cares for you” Each of Jaskier’s breathy laughs feel much too like the rocks thrown at him in Blaviken, his breath stuttering in agony. He fucking hates that he feels things.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 30
Kudos: 398





	Pretending to be Brave

It starts after the mountain, Jaskier stumbling back to their room in the early mornings, still drunk off his tits. It isn’t so abnormal, Jaskier is a bard after all, a creature of merriment— drink included. Only, these days, Jaskier's scent isn’t just of alcohol— tainted by the scent of pain. Why, Geralt can’t quite tell.

Sometimes, Jaskier comes back reeking of sex, other times of blood, but always of pain. Geralt can’t tell if Jaskier is fucking or fighting, seems like both most days. It’s never anything that happens in front of Geralt; Jasksier either goes home with people or stays late in the tavern when the witcher retires to the inn for the night. They always leave the towns at dawn, as Geralt always has— no change in that, but Jaskier doesn’t whine about it anymore. Whether it’s because leaving early permits them from seeing townsfolk that Jaskier got into bad terms with last night or if it’s because Geralt’d called him a nuisance, worthless and the cause of all his problems, he doesn’t know.

Apart from Jaskier consistently returning drunk and covered in bruises, his companion is a lot more resigned— almost cold in his curt answers, only sings and composes when Geralt goes on hunts. The witcher’s spent a-many days sitting in the dark, watching Jaskier play, feeling a pang in his chest when Jaskier scrambles to put his lute away when Geralt finally steps into their camp.

He wants to fix it, fix him. But he doesn’t know how and so it goes on. 

~~

Today’s no different. Jaskier does come home limping on the occasion, but the bard smells so strongly of pain, a stench of sickly sweet packed with salt. It reminds him of sweetbuns by the sea, gone bad.

“Jaskier.” The man doesn’t reply, doesn’t reek so strongly of alcohol, something headier.

“Jaskier, what’s wrong? You’re hurt.” The _more than usual_ goes unsaid. The bard collapses onto the bed on the other side of the room, breath shallow.

Something in Geralt’s chest goes cold with fear, mouth dry as he approaches the bard.

“ ’m fine,” Jaskier mumbles, words slurring so badly that Geralt can barely make them out. “Can take care of myself, just fine.”

“Jaskier—” Geralt takes in the bard’s dilated pupils, wide beyond usual, nose dusted with white powder. Jaskier shifts again, a pained whimper escaping his lips as his hand comes to cup the side of his ribs.

Ah fuck. Fisstech, a bar-fight— it’s not the first time Geralt asks himself what the _fuck’s_ gotten into his bard, not even the first time he’s felt so worried about him, but it’s the first time Geralt’s felt such abject terror for Jaskier.

Jaskier isn’t sweating, his breathing seems strained, only by the pain he’s feeling, no panic, no paranoia.

At least his bard isn’t dying. Geralt tells himself that they’ll be okay, as long as Jaskier doesn’t die, but the cold, unsettled thing in his chest won’t calm.

“Jaskier, I need to check your wound.” The bard giggles, a sound so happy it makes Geralt’s chest ache for not having heard it for months since that dreaded mountain.

“Buy me dinner first, at least— oh wait, forgot that you don’t know how to treat a lady— or anyone at all who cares for you” Each of Jaskier’s breathy laughs feel much too like the rocks thrown at him in Blaviken, his breath stuttering in agony. He fucking _hates_ that he feels things.

The bruises along Jaskier’s chest leave him breathless, doublet and chemise thrown off to the side. They’re a smattering of blues and yellows, purples and blacks and Geralt wonders how Jaskier even manages to stand, much less walk the whole day with his body so achey.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he says, voice so soft as if speaking any louder would hurt Jaskier further.

The bard’s asleep by the time Geralt’s done rubbing in salves and bandaging Jaskier’s chest. One rib’s broken, others bruised, likely; his legs are better off, but Geralt rubs in the salve, cooling to his bruises.

He can’t continue on like his, to see Jaskier in this state is both confusing and leaves him feeling raw. For the first time in his life, Geralt resolves himself to talk about his feelings.

~~

He’s awake long before the sun rises. Not that he’d slept, nervous despite the calming, even sounds of Jaskier’s snores.

It’s nearing evening by the time Jaskier wakes, clutching his head as he sit up with a groan. “Fuck, bastards got me good last night—” He looks at Geralt, who stares back at him before the bard glances at the measly window. “Melitele, what time is it? Why didn’t you wake me? Gods, feel like I was hit over the head— actually, come to think of it, I was— anyways, let’s get going, Geralt, wonder if you’ll fight a Striga soon, would love to write about one‚” he hides sa whimper as he goes to stand, though Geralt can smell the sharp spike of pain.

“Sit.” Jaskier blinks at him before settling in where he’s sat on the bed.

“Have you got another contract? Probably best if I don’t come along, not in best terms with the alderman, right now—”

“We need to talk.” Geralt ignores Jaskier’s stunned, slightly amused silence, “about your… fighting.”

Jaskier laughs, though it sounds hollow and forced. Geralt hates it, his friend, who’d been so comfortable around him to rub chamomile into his bottom, so caring as to take care of him post-hunts, acting so false false, so forced. “Finally decided to care? I’m fine, like I told you last night, and—”

“Dammit Jaskier!” He hates himself for the way his voice booms with his choice words, the same he’d used on the mountain. “Fuck—” Jaskier’s eyes look so sad, so hurt though there’s a careless hint of a smirk on his face. “Fuck, I’m… sorry, but— if you don’t want to talk about this, then say so. Don’t lie to me, Jask, don’t pretend to be fine when you clearly aren’t.”

Jaskier quiets at that, letting his facade slip, face an image of misery.

“What do you want to know then, Geralt?”

“The fighting.”

Jaskier sighs, defeated. “It’s not just fighting— fucking, too, just… rough.” He pauses before he continues.

“Wanted to die.” The bard shrugs like it’s no big deal, “settled for the next best thing— booze, sex, and having the shit beaten out of me.”

Geralt feels _numb_.

“Why?” His voice is raspy, raw.

Jaskier’s smile is dry as he replies. “Imagine your life’s work, turning to you tells you that you were the worst thing that had happened to it,” slow tears drip down his face, voice unwavering, “when all you wanted to do was make its life better. Imagine falling in love with it,” Jaskier swallows his sob, “only for it to deny that you were even friends; imagine putting up with days of walking without rest or food when you care for it so when it comes back from hunts, half-delusional with toxins; imagine your life’s work casting you aside every chance it gets, berating your singing— your weapon of choice to help it.” 

“And being told atop some godsforsaken mountain that you risked your life climbing as to not leave it alone with someone who keeps hurting it, that you’re a shit-shoveler, to be blamed for everything that’s happened to it, when all you did,” Jaskier’s breath hitches, watery eyes staring into his, “when all you did was love and care and fight for it?”

Geralt heart is ever so heavy in his chest as Jaskier continues, so quiet that it’s barely a whisper.

“Wouldn't you want to die, too, Geralt?”

Melitele, how’s Geralt messed up so badly? He doesn’t know whether to throw himself at Jaskier’s feet or to throw himself off the side of some cliff for all the pain he’s caused the only man who’s stayed by him. 

He supposes the first thing to do is apologize.

“Jaskier,” he mutters, the bard wiping away his tears as Geralt approaches his bed, frame creaking as Geralt sits by him, leant against the wall, shoulder to shoulder as he looks down at him.

Jaskier looks so small, so fragile and entirely too good for him. He’s fucking lucky Jaskier chose him to spend his life with all those years ago in Posada, he sees that now, sees how blind he’s been.

Geralt wraps his arms around his bard, gentle despite the awkwardness.

“We are friends. And I’m so sorry, Jas.” It’s not nearly enough, but Jaskier chuckles a quiet, wet thing as he shuffles closer into Geralt’s embrace.

It’s not enough, but Geralt know now that he can fix this.

**Author's Note:**

> Written as a tumblr prompt! this literally kicked my ass it's probably so bad but win some lose some ig 
> 
> [Come say hi on tumblr (@persony-pepper)!](https://persony-pepper.tumblr.com)


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